Witch Hunt (39 page)

“You know, son, when all this is over, you should consider using the gift that God has given you to help your fellow man. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I’m not convinced that a well-fed genie is quite enough to change the world. Or even make much of a difference.”

“My genie tells me that before all this is over, you’ll have the stuff it takes to make it count.”

McTavish and his ten-man squad were trapped in a broad marsh that was bordered on both sides by a high embankment.

By the time Cliff’s unit arrived, the night was advanced, and the storm more intense. McTavish’s men were all down, either dead, dying, or hiding behind the bodies of their comrades. German soldiers fired on them from the high ground on the other side of the marsh, and the muzzle flashes along the enemy line looked like a cloud of blinking fireflies. The rumble and crash of thunder and weaponry drowned out most of the screams of the fallen men, but occasionally the sounds of agony and fear filtered through the cacophony of noise. Cliff opened his mind to the men below, to try to determine their condition.

Ironically, the first man to fall hadn’t been struck by an enemy bullet. Rather, standing in the wet marsh, his rifle held high over his head, he had been struck by lightning. His was the flesh Cliff had smelled. The Germans had followed the lead of the hammer of their Thor and attacked. McTavish was dead, as were four others. Only five men were alive, and of those, only one was unharmed. Cliff shuddered from the intensity of desperation he felt coming from the survivors, and then directed his men to fire on the unseen enemy. Although he didn’t anticipate that they would hit many marks, it would at least draw some fire away from the men below.

“Can we get them out?” Father Nolan asked.

Cliff looked at the sky. “Not until the storm relaxes. If the lightning would let up some, it would help … especially if it keeps on raining. Then their flares won’t do much good.”

“I’ll pray about it.”

Cliff nodded. He thought about the wealth of information regarding weather magic that had been in the Hawthorne Book of Shadows and regretted he had never applied himself to the mastery of it.

His mind swept the enemy line. He picked up a variety of thoughts — he had learned German in college — and most were of anger and hate and fear. There was a sense of impending doom for their fatherland and they seemed determined to take down every Allied soldier they could along with them. There was a notable exception, however, and Cliff was drawn to linger on that man. He was the ranking officer, and he was weary of the killing and dying. He was thinking about his wife and sons. He just wanted to go home.

“Can’t go home ‘til it’s over, fella,” Cliff muttered, then raised his own rifle to shoot. However, he aimed in a direction farther down the line than where the German officer lay thinking of Ilse, Max, and Karl Eberlein, Jr.

At four o’clock in the morning, the storm gave up. The enemy gunfire died off as suddenly as the thunder ceased. The moans from the wounded men echoed up from the marsh below.

“I’d like to request permission to go in to attend the men.” The timid voice belonged to Kibby.

“No. They’ll use their flares now.”

“Maybe they’ll take a nap. We’re all tired, sir.”

Cliff smiled at the young man’s naiveté, and he was glad for the shroud of darkness. “That’s unlikely. Besides, they won’t see your red cross by the light of a flare. They won’t hold their fire. I don’t know if they would even if they could see you were a medic. It’s kind of late in the game.”

“I’d like to request permission to go in to attend the men.” This time his voice was stronger.

Cliff sighed. The moans resonated louder against the wall of night.

“Even if I can dole out some morphine. Anything …” Kibby’s voice cracked. “They’re suffering so.”

The young medic’s compassion overcame Cliff’s reason. “If you want to try to help them, I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“God go with you, son,” Father Nolan said.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tucker mumbled.

Cliff’s mind followed Kibby’s descent. He noted that the young man fought a growing terror with every step, but he never faltered. Kibby fueled his courage by a remembrance of the compassion of his Lord Buddha and a desire to emulate it. Cliff witnessed the greatest demonstration of bravery he had ever been privy to.

There were only four of McTavish’s men still alive. In the darkness, Kibby located the first patient by following the sounds of his anguish. In the darkness, he managed to give the wounded man a clumsy injection of morphine.

“My shoulder,” the man mumbled.

“How long ago did you get it?” Kibby asked, his voice a whisper.

“Long time.”

“Then I doubt if it hit anything important. You’ll be okay.”

There was a short, cynical laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe you could try and crawl out.”

“I’m staying right here behind Sanders and Joey. They’ve kept me alive so far.”

Kibby felt around in the darkness and discovered that they were behind two bodies, one piled on top of the other. He fought back his revulsion. “Can you shove me in the direction of the next guy … who’s still breathing?”

“Sure. Paul got it right before the lights went out. From the way he carried on, I’d say it’s bad.” He turned Kibby around and gave him a push.

Kibby crawled blindly through the thick mud. “Paul?” He kept his voice low, his tone urgent. “Paul, you out there?”

He heard a groan and headed in its direction. A sharp hiss and a blast of light filled the air as a parachute flare exploded above him.

Kibby collapsed in the mud and lay still. Fear paralyzed him. He knew if he moved he would attract fire. He heard the groan for a second time. Slowly and carefully, he tilted his head and looked toward where Paul had fallen. The young face — whose age approximated Kibby’s own — was deathly pale. The boy stared at Kibby with pleading eyes. His hand was pressed tightly against his neck; blood seeped from between his fingers.

Don’t move
, Kibby’s mind told himself. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the other man’s condition. The desire to survive consumed him.

May all beings be happy and at their ease.
The words of the thera who had been Kibby’s religious teacher flashed through his mind
. Even as a mother watches over and protects her child, so with boundless mind should one cherish all living beings.

A soft moan escaped Kibby. He didn’t want to think about
metta
now.
Metta
, a deliberate and conscious direction of love and benevolence, was one of the keys of his faith. He knew that if he invoked such a state within himself, he would lose all ego consciousness and, with it, his animal instinct for survival.
No!
his human nature insisted.
Of course
, his Buddha nature replied.

He sighed in resignation and began the process of stilling his mind. He used the method of observation of his own in-breathing and out-breathing to quiet his internal turmoil before he turned his thoughts to the generation of love. First, he located within himself the center of love he had discovered through the years of religious practice. Then he applied it to his own being; he experienced compassionate forgiveness for his own cowardice. He extended the dynamic love he felt outward to embrace all the dead and dying who were lying with him in the marsh. Finally, he carried it further to include even the Germans who held them captive.

Another flare was launched, and the night became even brighter. Kibby opened his eyes and crawled toward Paul. A volley of gunfire rang out. Kibby jerked as he took two bullets in the leg.

He paused only for a moment until the shock passed and he could catch his breath, then he continued his short trek.

By the light of the flares, Kibby made a quick assessment of Paul’s injuries. He had made it just in time, he decided. A few more minutes and the soldier would have been beyond saving. He wasted no time in giving him an injection and applying the necessary sutures.

“Your leg,” Paul said. “It’s just pumping out the blood.”

Kibby glanced down and saw the arterial wound. He grunted and continued his ministrations.

“Fella, take care of yourself.”

Even as a mother watches over and protects her child
… Kibby didn’t miss a step in the first-aid procedure.

“You wanna die?” Paul asked.

Kibby was quickly growing weak. He needed to hurry if he was going to complete his work.

“Do ya hear what I’m saying?”

Kibby’s heart felt as if it would overflow with love. He appreciated the concern of his patient. “It’s my duty,” he whispered, grateful that he was given such a compassionate job to perform.

Kibby looked at Paul’s face, and, through the growing darkness of his own imminent death, he saw tears form in the other man’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Paul whispered.

“Thank you,” Kibby said.

“He just fell over,” Father Nolan announced. They had been watching Kibby’s progress since the flares were launched.

“He’s dead,” Cliff said.

“You’re sure?”

Cliff nodded. He had not only been watching, but his mind had been listening to both the internal and external dialogue of the last hour of Kibby’s life.

Father Nolan began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. The other men in Cliff’s unit joined him. Cliff, however, didn’t know the words.

It was a bitter dawn. Cliff’s men were numb from the cold and the lingering tragedy of the night.

The wounded men continued to cry out for help while the Germans peppered the marsh with bullets.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Father Nolan announced. “I’m going to get them out of there. This is totally insane.”

“War is insane, Father,” Cliff said.

“Well, I’m not.” He produced a long stick he had found and attached a large Red Cross flag to it. “Who’s coming with me? Only medics and chaplains allowed.”

Two seasoned medics and the Salvation Army chaplain joined the priest.

“You going to stop us?” he asked Cliff.